Like Clockwork
by LogicalDreamer
Summary: Sometimes they were together at twelve, sometimes apart at six, but there would always be another hour. Steampunk!FrUk
1. One

The first time Arthur met Francis, he nearly sent the man to the hospital.

It was the end of the workweek, just after closing time, and Arthur had had just enough time to organize the smaller pieces (screws, washers, short wires) into their rightful places. A shrill whistle sounded from the middle of town, and he knew he had only ten minutes before curfew. The Englishman pushed his magnification goggles into his messy hair and wiped his greasy hands on his vest.

He closed the boxes and stacked them, lifting the pile with a grunt and fumbling to nudge the inventory room's door open with one foot. Just as he wriggled his way into the darkened room, the bell over the front door jingled, and Arthur nearly croaked in surprise as he lost his grip on the bottom box. All three boxes clattered to the floor, spilling their contents across the floor and creating little tiny hazards that were just aching to stab the unsuspecting foot.

Arthur swore loudly and poked his head around the door to glare at the culprit.

"We're closed," he managed through gritted teeth, before his jaw went slack (just a little).

The man in front of him was unbelievably handsome (some people got all the good genes. Arthur hoped the man had a tendency for heart disease to make up for it), with loose blond hair framing his face and a deliberate spattering of stubble and the loveliest blue eyes he had ever seen. His waistcoat outlined a trim figure with broad shoulders and a tapered waist, and his legs went on for miles in those trousers.

Arthur closed his mouth with a click and refrained from throwing the nearest piece of merchandise at the pretty face.

"I'm sorry to rush in so late," the man apologised, the knowing quirk of his lips sending an embarrassed rush of blood to Arthur's cheeks, "but I'm afraid I am in desperate need of a particular part and-"

"We're closed." Arthur folded his arms and glared.

"That's not what your sign said." The man's smirk kept him from any pretense of innocence. "It will just take a moment, I'm sure."

"I don't make exceptions."

"I find I'm often an exception to that rule."

The man winked, and Arthur's fists clenched. He made a sharp gesture to the mess behind him before stalking over to the window and making sure the sign was facing the correct way. The twit was right, he had forgotten to flip it. A customer being right - the mere thought sent Arthur's blood into a boil.

"In case you didn't notice, I'm a bit busy. You'll have to come back later, or better yet, charm the pants off some other poor fellow."

The man was suddenly leaning over his shoulder, blowing warm air into Arthur's cheek. He shivered, goosebumps and an angry flush creeping up his neck, and inhaled sharply when he found himself trapped between an arm and the wall. The man's warmth seemed to permeate his body, and a tremor spiraled down his spine and into his gut.

"Oh," the man purred, "but I'd rather charm the pants right off _you_."

Blood was _so_ hard to clean out of hardwood.

* * *

The second time Francis met Arthur, he nearly poisoned him.

Ever since the incident at the hardware store, Francis had been wondering just how to treat his grudge against the cute but violent Englishman. By nature, he was not a malicious man, but such outright rejection (and going for the face!) called for revenge, something delicate and subtle and just the right amount of payback for such an insult.

The answer walked into the bakery one cool afternoon and took a seat at table five.

Francis couldn't believe his luck. The object of his revenge was sitting right in front of him, unsuspecting and unaware of the scheming Frenchman behind the counter. Looking at the thin face, Francis found himself having second thoughts. Even if the man had tried to beat him to a pulp, it seemed a shame to harm someone with such narrow hips, and proud posture, and electrifying green eyes...

"Of course. The only organic food source in the city, and it's French," snorted the man in possession of said green eyes.

Francis clasped a hand to his heart and welcome his resolve back to him.

When the order came in for one chai tea, hold the sugar, and a croissant, it was all Francis could do to keep from chuckling to himself. Nothing complicated, just a little bit of old milk to make the Englishman lose his breakfast once he left the bakery. It wasn't the most elegant form of revenge, but it would do the job.

Francis watched eagerly as the order was placed in front of the man, who cleared his throat and spread a napkin in his lap. He wrapped his slim fingers around the handle and cupped it gently, blowing on the hot liquid, and Francis could help admiring the soft tranquility that spread across the face and loosened the tight-knit features.

The man took one sip, then another, wrinkling his nose before setting the cup back down and pushing the croissant away with a look of disgust.

Francis thought it was time to make his appearance.

"_Bonjour, monsieur_. And how do you find your tea?"

The man swiveled to look up at him, eyes widening in recognition before narrowing again in suspicion. "Disgusting, as only a French frog could make."

"My specialty for Englishmen," Francis winked. "Especially those without any semblance of manners."

"It seems your nose has healed without a scratch." The man raised a bushy eyebrow and smirked. "It's a pity you can't use the same magic to fix your cooking."

"And still more a pity you'll never be so fortunate as to taste my best cooking." Francis made a shooing motion, forcing a frown on his face. "If you dislike it so much, then please do me the honor of paying and leaving. I'm sure business will be all the better for it."

"I will leave when-" The Englishman stood and raised a hand, but it suddenly went to his stomach, and he lurched. "What the bloody hell...oh, _God_, what did you put-"

Francis' eyes widened, and he tried to usher the man out the door. "Get out, you crude- Oh, _mon Dieu!_"

Vomit was _so _hard to clean out of shiny leather boots.


	2. Two

When Francis and Arthur met for the third time, they accidentally exchanged luggage.

Three in the afternoon, when the heat and smog were nearly unbearable and the air was heavy with fumes and coal dust - Arthur was just about at his wit's end, having nearly been bowled over at least twice in his rush to board the train, and he was nearly positive he had been pickpocketed (it was just a pocketwatch, but one lovingly crafted by his father and something he would punch the culprit's lights out for if he was not so terribly late).

Francis felt sure he was being asphyxiated by the press of people around him, and some factory worker had brushed past him and gotten an unsightly streak of grease on his favorite peacoat. He could see the doorway just ahead, with people trying desperately trying to push past the steward and hitch a ride. One young ragamuffin in particular, dirt smudged across both cheeks, tried to worm his way under Francis' arm with- was that a pocketwatch?

With one final, inelegant shove, Francis managed to get onto the first step. He paused to fumble with his ticket, flashing his brightest smile at the steward and his award winning mustache, but a sudden gust of wind blew the pillar of smoke directly into him, and he coughed into his elbow, wincing as the clumps of ash and dirt pattered against his arm.

"Fuck!"

Something that was very much not a smoke cloud collided with him next, and he went sprawling into the doorway, tripping over the stairs and the steward's feet.

A rumble of annoyance came from the crowd waiting to board, and Francis was forced to grab the handle of the nearest bag and scramble backwards to avoid getting kicked by sharp heels and pointed toes. Once his back was against the wall, he struggled to stand, brushing out the worst wrinkles and retying his hair ribbon. How crude some people could be! It was just a train, for heaven's sake.

Which, of course, was why he slipped through the crowd to his assigned seat lest someone snatch it up in the chaos.

21B, yes, that was it. Francis hesitated at the sight of a few suspicious stains in the seat, but it was a booth with a headrest and folding sidetable and he would have room to stretch his legs, so he slid into it with the grace of a cat, tossing a casual wink at the elderly lady to the left.

A disgusted gasp caught his attention.

"It's _you_!"

Francis had never been addressed with such revulsion. A condescending smile was already firmly in place when he looked up.

"And who have I had the _outstanding_ pleasure of meeting befo- You!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes, we have established that we are ourselves. Now, if you please, I'd like to claim my seat, which I paid for with my own money."

Never to be caught unawares, Francis didn't even blink, but merely raised his eyebrows and smirked. "_Pardonnez-moi_, _monsieur, _but I don't believe this seat was discounted for the lower class. It is, in fact, right here on my ticket_." _

"It seems you are illiterate, then, because 21B is printed right here on _my_ ticket. Therefore I would appreciate if you could get your cheese-padded arse out of _my_ seat."

An insult to his perfectly healthy, fit bottom was not to be tolerated. Francis' smirk tightened. "It seems we're at an impasse. Shall we consult the steward?"

"Yes, we shall."

The steward was called. He apologised for the inconvenience, but the train was overcrowded and one of them would have to reschedule. Both men were too stubborn to relinquish the seat, and remained squished together. A very, very awkward silence ensued.

Because he was English and therefore the epitome of etiquette, Arthur spoke first.

"I suppose it would be too much to ask for the name of the man who tried to poison me."

Francis snorted derisively. "_Oui_, as I would not want my name falling from the lips of one so horribly rude and violent."

"Hmph."

A second silence. The two men crossed their arms almost simultaneously, and faced away from each other. Across the row, the elderly lady chuckled to herself.

As the train began to move, the same steward appeared to punch everyone's tickets. He halted at the shared seat, smiling sheepishly.

"Ah, Mr. Bonnefoy, Mr. Kirkland, I must apologize again for the inconvenience. But if you're really sure-"

"I'm sure," Arthur hissed through gritted teeth.

"And I agree with Mr. Kirkland," Francis smirked.

The train ride didn't stay quiet for long, and by the time the two men left, they had succeeded in escaping with the wrong luggage, and the elderly lady was chuckling to herself, happy to have an amusing story for her grandchildren.

* * *

_Too many ideas and not enough time or motivation. But it looks like I may be getting some free time in the near future before finals start up! Also, the story format may be changing drastically, depending on how convoluted I decide to make the storyline._

_Review feed my poor, starving heartstrings._


End file.
